This Life
by thievesfire
Summary: The Kennedy Chronicles: The last days of rebellion are dying, the Authority's grip is choking the life from the people. Only a few dare to fight against the powers that be, and the Hounds of Justice, who seek to quiet all that revolt. A loner with explosive skills might just make the difference...
1. Nobody Lives Forever

**((Well hello there you lovely peoples! So as some of you will be aware I've created my own AU World and have written two stories so far within it (** _ **My Little Friend**_ **& **_**Release The Hounds)**_ **which follow the Shield. This is the same world, though concerning different characters, and focused on a time before the Shield turned away from the Authority. I hope that you all enjoy it! As always please let me know what you think as I love reading your comments. This was an image in my head, and I'd love to know if you think I should continue it!))**

 **NOVEMBER** 10 || **KENNEDY** Central Capitol

When he was a kid, the world stood out from his mind like a massive map, ready to be conquered. He saw continents; he saw countries, cities, and people. He saw the chance, the possibility to find the unseen and to walk the road untraveled. He saw it all out that bedroom window in Kennedy. He felt it each time he blew out the candles on his imaginary birthday cakes. He saw it plunge into his skin through a tattoo needle. But for all that he saw, he remained in Kennedy, the Stormy City, his forever home because he didn't have the means, the reason to leave. None did. No one ever really left. They just sank down lower and lower, year by year as their souls were consumed by drugs and crime, as they fell under the spell of the Authority, who promised the best possible things, but couldn't or wouldn't deliver on a single word.

The State of Capitol fathered the vagrants and the lost boys. It took in the criminals and the scoundrels and as time went by and his face started to age, as hair grew on his chin and the ink began to cover more and more of his skin, he refused to be left behind, to stay in that house where he wasn't wanted, wasn't loved. There was no point staying where he couldn't find what he needed. Kennedy was his town, and he would walk its streets with a hollow pride.

At least, that's how it had all started out.

The cold and the wet sank through the coat he wore, splattered the dome of the hood which covered his head. His face was bent down to the floor, his walk solid. Instinct told him that eyes watched from every corner, but that was the way of Kennedy. You were never out of sight, never out of harm and when your name was on the Authority's list, all you had to do was wait for the hell hounds to come after you. He had no fear of the _Shield_. Just attack dogs on short strings. He'd faced their kind before. Had done favors in the past for one of their members. He was too useful to them to kill completely. A show could be made, the hounds would maul at his carcass, say he'd been punished and he'd fall out of sight for a while. He was not their enemy, not yet.

But he had missions of his own to attend.

The wind licked the forever damp sidewalk. Droplets fell from the sky and dripped from the overhang of those street lights. They littered the streets, every dozen meters or so another stood proud. Most had been broken; stones and bullets had busted their bulbs and left few places to hide. Each alley mouth he passed housed its own special brand of atheism. There was no hope, no faith. If you peered through the shadows, you were like to find the crumpled body of another night victim, a woman with her throat slashed, a kid trawling through the dumpsters for his latest meal. There was nothing safe about Kennedy. It was a city forgotten. His hands were in his pockets, he knew every single street. That map he'd seen of the world as a child had come down to an intricate knowledge of this own place. His own home was sealed in his brain, his own blood marked out the roads and corners, the alleyways and railways. The railway, with its shaking apartments and nearby Mullah; that was where he made his home, was on the other side of the city from where he was now. Most of the streets lacked names; they'd been scraped off years before in the riots, so that the Authority couldn't track the rebellions as easy.

He'd been among those numbers, roaring for revolution, battled until bloody and blue, and found himself in a cell for his efforts to change the world. He'd been too strong for them to break. So they threw him down in arenas they'd started to build underground. They forced him to fight for his life whilst they threw their coins and made their bets. He'd fought so many. He'd seen the life fade from their eyes as he squeezed it out of their bodies. He X'd the back of his hands in defiance against the order they tried to force on them. You lived or you died in the pits. He'd made it out alive. The Hounds of Justice had not yet taken a bite out of him, so he continued.

These were early days. The Game had ruled over Capitol, over Kennedy for less than a year. Already, he had ravaged the cities. He'd claimed them all as his own. He marked out men for their loyalty to him, fed his enemies to the dogs and took money, land and power for himself. He lived the life of luxury whilst the people suffered. The few blues, those badge carrying man who'd made a promise to try and keep Kennedy safe, who pledged themselves to the one who held that old title, that were left on the streets continued their rounds, did their best to try and round up the villains. But there were too many and they too few.

People were too blind to see that there was no good. There were only the shades of darkness they were willing to fall through to get to what they wanted.

He had never considered himself to be a hero, a good man. There were stories of people who had been, of the coppers, the military men who'd risen through the ranks, who'd toppled oppression and found themselves in the position of power, on that throne with the Kennedy title on high. It was that golden opportunity to make heavenly changes to a state lost in the murk. This life was just a dead man's ballet – a puppet show. All were corpses, just waiting to die.

He was no exception, and the toll of the bell carried him faster, faster through those deep cut streets. He'd heard what had happened, had to see it with his own eyes because he knew belief wouldn't sustain his curiosity. The bell, over, over, signaled the coming of the midnight hour. The street lamps flickered as he dashed through their lanes. The bastion, built to keep in and force out, it hulked high, higher than every building, save for the center few, save for that indomitable strong hold in the town hall, the home of the Authority. None had ever scaled its great walls; plenty had hung dead from them, ropes around their necks, bodies swaying against the stone – warnings to all with ill intention. Men like him.

One of the last of the old breed had met the Hounds. He'd heard the whispers on the streets, the screams in the alleyways, the predictions, the fears. One of the last who dared to stand up openly, to roar out defiance was the man who refused to die. They said he was immortal. They said that he could never be buried. Every man could lie in an unmarked grave. No one wanted to die. But the Undertaker dug graves, he didn't sleep in them.

The rain started to heave, to tide down and he felt the winds billow. The last few tolls were creeping as he reached the edge of the bastion. Ladders ridged its great spine, hundreds of meters up, skinny rungs. He clutched a hold with gloved hands. The fingers peeped through and smeared on the wet metal. Up above were flashes, he could hear the throws and the groans. He could feel it inside as he turned his face up and started to climb. The water smeared across his face, caught in his hair and the thick beard that obscured his chin. His strength was absolute, but the weather did not falter. He tangled his booted feet in the rungs as he went, had to stop as the wind tugged at his coat, tried to pull him off, send him falling to his death in the ghettos below. His hood blew back but he couldn't stop to pull it back. Every heave pulled him closer. The bell struck again. Closer, closer, his heart heaved and his breathes were short. But he reached it, the brink on which some patrolled, rifles at the ready. His arms hooked over the ledge, and he saw them, just as the knot was tightened around the neck, as the body was hauled over the side.

The last bell tolled as the Undertaker hung from the bastion. The search lights swung round – the flashes he'd seen. There, the three men stood, victorious over the fallen. The Hounds. They were damaged goods, he could see in how they stood; the blood which trailed down their arms. The last of his strength pulled him up, feet onto the slippery platform. They didn't hear him until the first thunder rolled. His lungs expelled the air, his heartbeat stuttered to a base rate. They found him in a flash of lightning. The rain illuminated, drew down from their eyes. There – the mad one, a ferocious brute who had to be held back as they tried to undo the chain wrapped around his throat, it made his eyes bulge. When it came free, he took it in hand. To his left, the thief, their leader with blond roots and a smart mouth – more words came from him than the giant who lurched behind them both. He'd met them before. They'd fought. But he'd lived. Tonight they'd murdered the Undertaker.

The search light rounded, blinded him for a moment, from its shadow the small one, Ambrose darted forward. But he scrambled to a halt when he saw what was in hand. His mission had nothing to do with the Shield. Nothing to do with the dead man. He'd been paid for something stronger, a bite at the core. He had bigger things in mind, and the fuses were lit. This wasn't a suicide bid, or an assassination.

It was demolition.

Each bomb was perfectly snug in the palms of his hands. The rain made slick the rest of the world but his grip was solid.

'Don't be a fool.' Rollins, the smart one. They'd made deals before, helped each other when they needed it; scratching backs and kicking out lights, blowing up doors and buildings...safes. But those days were long gone. He'd been the one to blow the doors in the asylum, to free the madman Dean Ambrose out onto the streets. 'You'll take us all out.'

Thunder shrugged his shoulders and he braced his legs against the strength of the wind. There was no turning back and no undying.

'Nobody lives forever.'

He let go.

The tails of his caught the wind, and he ran. There weren't enough seconds to get completely clear. Another search light, within grasp, built in a long metal column encased in the stone, the sturdiest of all the towers on the bastion. His hand somehow grabbed the metal. The bombs hit the stone. The blast smacked them all, threw them back, and threw them aside as chips and blocks and twisted metal flew. The art of building a bomb was simple to him. He could create blindfold and neatly put them to rest in their cylinder houses. The fun came from the boom.

He held on for life. The platform on which they'd all stood started to give. The foundations in stone were simple. Blow from the bottom and the top would tumble. From his pocket he pulled more free, homemade grenades that he pulled the pin from with old teeth. He spat out the metal and hauled them into the tumbling wall. This was a show for the ages. A spectacular experience of light and heat. He laughed against the bombardment of the storm. He saw the Shield scramble for safety. He saw as Seth stumbled, near fell, but his hand was caught by Ambrose, his foot clutched by their fellow hound, Roman Reigns.

He caught the giant's eyes across the divide. Reigns too clung to one of the search lights. He heard the swirl of oblivion and felt as the wall crumbled. Thick blocks of stone disappeared down into the dark of Kennedy, crushed the nothingness below. There were no honest hearts or men to worry for. He was the last endeavor, the lifeline for the few remaining rebels. But he was no soldier. A gun for hire, a bomb ready to explode. He was a mercenary and he didn't care what it brought. The endless storm, the fury of a world on the edge, it was his to claim and to conquer. He heaved, brought his body up, somehow managed to hitch his leg in the metal bracket of the search light. The wall succumbed. A deep V gouged itself open, cracks that trailed down to its foundation. Particles were carried on the hurricane.

The bastion, infallible walls of stone, had fallen.

But bombs are unpredictable.

One left, clutched in hand, but knocked free by the bent metal of the ladder he'd climbed. It tumbled, smacked against the tower he'd stranded himself on. There was nowhere to go. The blast burned the skin on his neck, set alight hairs and he felt his grip on the light begin to slacken. The white faces in the storm saw him, the hand of Seth Rollins reached out –

' **Punk**!'

He only just heard it as the tower crumbled. The bricks and mortar flew the metal bracket inside overheated, buckled and bent. The stone collided with the earth and he felt his lifeline begin to give. If he believed in a God he might have prayed. But there was nothing beyond the dull earth, and the sky he fell through like a meteor. Perhaps this was the day that he died. Time started to slow. He could see the pieces of that wall, the tower fall down with him. Animals and men all died in the end; all were beasts in disguise. He thought he saw the faces of the Shield above him. He counted his sins.

The world stopped with a sickening crack.


	2. Good Luck

**((Hi everyone! So, you know me! I just had to carry this piece on. Thanks to the people who have viewed it so far, I hope you enjoy the next part! Please let me know what you think! I'm beginning to get into the character of Punk and can't wait to develop him, and this story more!))**

 **ELEVEN MONTHS LATER**

 **OCTOBER** 2 || **KENNEDY** Central Capitol

Down there –

He could see them all, though they thought themselves invisible. They huddled against the heat of the flaming drums, close to each other for some extra warmth, to try their luck at picking each other's thin pockets. It was the waster's way to hide in the nooks and the crannies and to pray that they weren't given any shit. If they were, like cornered dogs they'd fight against the bigger hounds. These were the people of Kennedy who had nothing, gave northing, and were as worthless as the rodents who scavenged around their boots. He had no sympathy.

They tried to block the flames light from the mouth of the alley they squatted in, tried to stay hidden, out of the way, because that was what seemed safest in Kennedy.

But being safe didn't mean you stayed alive.

The people in the alley had not offended him, nor had they harmed him. He did not pity them. Their world was one of fear and they could not be counted among the living, when they were already dead. A shake of his head silhouetted against moon and cloud. There was no rain, only the nails of an early winter, struck fresh into his skin. He could hazard a guess as to how the night would end for the creatures below. He'd already heard the howls – the hounds were out hunting tonight.

Slow, he drew back from the edge. He would leave them to their oil drum fires – they could keep their hope they would be undisturbed. He had other places to be. Maybe they would survive another October night and wake up not in fear, but in rage. Maybe there would be a new birth. Only a few left chose to fight.

He kept his hands clean, save for the powder burns. _Clean_. No man was clean in the forsaken city they all called their home. Why they stayed was because there was little or nothing outside the walls that he'd once broken down. They'd been rebuilt, stronger, better, so that another barrage of rebellion could be contained and slain. How many people had escaped that night? He didn't know. He remembered little, save for the white faces above him as he'd fallen down from the sky. Trouble made its way into the blood of every child born inside the walls. He was no exception, and when he'd never been named by the woman who'd shoved him out, he'd taken one for himself. Rooftops were curious places. You could see the world from a new perspective, and it was so easy to understand the thrill of power – to look down on the cretins below and to know that from your place on high you could cast down all manner of evils to ruin the lives of those who were no use to you, who threatened you, or just for your own enjoyment.

Punk had seen it all.

The supposed summer of Kennedy had been a summer for him to remember. He'd walked back through the streets for the first time since the fall. He'd been a new man, rebuilt out of old parts just so that he could do something more than just be one of the lost who found comfort with those burning oil drums. Innocence was for the next life, and he found every day and night that past became the same roll of time. Tonight was different – he'd not seen the moon since he was a child. He peered up to it now, drew his hood back so that his eyes might see. It was barely real, muffled by cloud and its luminescence dulled by the perpetual grey that lingered in the skies of Kennedy. There could have been diamonds shining just beyond the border, but you could never see. Who knew what brought the cold to Kennedy. It had always been the same. It could have been the weight of all of the human evils that occurred. It was the city of villains. Those who had never committed were so few they were considered wrong. Sin was just another word for life. If the moon could have swallowed them all then they would have suffocated in the true darkness that inhabited every human heart. It was all about existence – existence made impossible by the people who cut through the sky with that miserable building to the east of where he was.

His eye caught its spike. There – the center of the city. The cosy fortress where the Authority hid. When they chanced the streets it was for personal reason. He'd seen the Game once. He'd witnessed the moment he took the throne and declared that Kennedy was entering a new chapter, that he would bring the much needed change that would give their city a burning pride. So many believed that that was the moment Kennedy would become the home they'd prayed for. He didn't believe in a God. There was no being among those polluted clouds directing traffic. The world belonged to the humans, and Kennedy belonged to the Authority.

Most were afraid.

The punishment for fighting back was brutality. Some died, others barely lived, crippled and left in the dust. He'd seen the coppers try to maintain the order they'd sworn to protect, only to be cut down by those who'd replaced them. When he was young, he'd met one of them on a similar rooftop. He'd been exercising his sticky fingers, and Punk had been playing with matches. Only a handful of years had separated them – a similar mistrust of the world and a determination to make a life for themselves. There was no straight and narrow for the determined. He'd shown the kid how to make firecrackers. They'd made friends under storm clouds and had grown with different aims but had the same ideas.

One grew into him...the other became Seth Rollins.

The last he'd seen of the Shield had been the night the walls fell. He'd strayed from the surface and remained below, in the dark. Not alone, but not in good company. He healed with help. The Shield were not his business. Every night was the same...but nearly a year ago everything had changed. He'd once been a free man.

Those days were gone.

Most thought him dead – buried under the bastion rubble. He knew better. His blood still pumped and his heart still beat. The cold meant he still felt, but how much he didn't really know or care. Punk sniffed and pulled the hood of his coat back over his head. Somewhere in Kennedy was a man he had to meet. Time was moving – that thread that tugged them all in the same direction and he looked down to the words written on his palm – one of the few places not layered in permanent ink. It was only a name – all that he was ever given. But this was one he knew – a man who had hidden in the cables and the dynamics of the city for as long as he could remember. No matter where you were in Kennedy, you were watched. The few spots that were blind were where the bodies piled high.

Punk approached the edge of the building, peered back down to where the vagrants were. He saluted them.

' **Good luck boys, you're gonna need it.** '

It didn't take long for him to reach street level. He kept his head down, walked slow enough people didn't give him a second look, but fast enough that if he needed to run, he could. No one in Kennedy kept snail pace. It was too easy to be dragged back into alleys or face first into the roads. Only the rich drove in the city. There was the underground, where the trains rallied and shot to and fro to all points of the massive space they inhabited. But for most, they tapped the streets. Down below was where the demons hid, and further below the dead walked. Superstition was not in his creed. Whatever the weather, those that breathed were alive and could die. That was what he was told when he was found among the stone and metal, broken bodied and with no chance. No chance at all.

CM Punk was a man on the brink – somewhere between the living and the dead. He could tip at any second, and so he chose impulse and chaos. It was more fun to live all your last seconds at once than to drag them out.

People didn't really know him. Didn't recognize him – he'd changed a lot. All that remained the same were those swirls of ink over his arms and chest. But they were hidden now. Only to look close at the face would you see the man who died the day the Undertaker did. Oh Punk was forgotten easily – the anonymous bomber. There was no glory in his line of work. Any who thought that there could be any real sense of satisfaction was wrong. The death of any – even the truly evil, was a misery. His delight came from the bang. And now, as payback for the kiss of life (a poisonous kiss), he moved through the labyrinth of Kennedy, to find a name written in pen.

There was a frozen, industrial beauty to the carcass of the once great city. Here and there were spots of the former spirit of the place. Built into the front of some of the buildings, where shops and businesses had been, were wooden boxes, meant for flowers and plants. There were no trees in Kennedy. There was nothing organic. The only life was what was coughed out by its inhabitants and even then, Punk doubted it meant much. The carbon monoxide sky overhead was enough to poison anyone, though the Authority just shrugged and blamed the weather.

Of course – it was the weather's fault everything had gone to shit.

Punk sniffed, paused. That smell – he knew it well. To his left, an alley mouth, similar to the one he'd abandoned just now. Slowly he moved back, folded himself into the shadows. Eyes watched the street ahead, aglow in those fragile lamp lights – the few which still worked. Straight in front of him, straight past the chasm, without a single look in his direction, he walked fast. Punk's eyes narrowed a little and once he'd gone, he pushed himself out of the shadow a little to watch him. Everyone knew the name of the strutting moron. He smelled like money because he liked to think himself rich and famous; he did the lower level jobs for the Authority because it kept him safe and gave him the green. He could fight, but he was a coward. Months before, he'd heard the stories of how he'd assaulted one of the coppers. He smacked him with a lead pipe to the ribs and heart, had retired the man of only thirty three because of the attack. Just to prove that he was hard enough.

The Miz.

The fact that he called himself that was ridiculous. His actual name was Mike Mizanin, and he'd grown up two streets over from the slum Punk had been born into. Credit given he'd fought his way to some point of betterment. If that meant being a slimeball with a taste for expensive cologne, then Miz had succeeded. Whilst not his target, his interest was picked as to where the Authority's pet Chihuahua was going in such a hurry. A short grin caught the corner of Punk's mouth, from the wrist of the gloves he wore; he pulled free a wooden pick, and stuck it between his teeth. Head down, he shoved his hands back into his pocket and made after the rushing underling. Jagged sidewalk passed under his feet, boots tipped the edges of old puddles which would never dry out.

You could _hear_ Miz now – his boots had in built heels to make him seem taller – his little secret until you heard the odd, dull click on the path.

' **Where you heading...** ' Punk muttered. He liked this game. He could play the hunter in the dark. The Miz was all alone and that meant he was scared. He was afraid because people didn't like him. Oh he could bite, but it was nowhere near as loud as his squeal. They'd had dealings years before Miz had turned his back on his mutual scum and turned to the top paying breed. Miz had never wanted Punk's particular...services, but had been on the receiving end of them. The special kind which went boom had never been popular with those in charge. But devils were locked inside things – and it was his job to blow the doors right open. The particular operation they'd met had been dealt in Mullah. Natalya Hart, the queen of that part of town, unruled by the Authority, had purchased his services to take down the building of an upstart who wanted to begin his own brand of pleasure based business. Punk did – and wouldn't you know who stumbled out of the rubble, coughing smoke? Miz. Since then their paths had crossed far too frequently, and Punk stood tall every single time.

He wondered if Miz had rejoiced when he'd heard that CM Punk was dead?

He probably celebrated with a bottle of semi-expensive bubbly, ordered in three prostitutes, fucked them in alphabetical order, then returned home to his wife and took her for pizza – the fancy kind. High on ambition – low on brain. That was Miz.

But then his wife wasn't much better – as one of many in the long line of personal assistants to Stephanie McMahon, the one thing she seemed to understand was clothing – you could see that she dressed her husband. Miz had an instance of always wearing sunglasses. Punk didn't even know where you could _buy_ sunglasses in Kennedy. It was such a bizarre thing to want in a city where the sun hadn't shined in over a hundred years. _When the walls went up, the sun went out_ – that was the saying. Any who'd lived when the day had become eternal night were long dead. Almost childishly, Punk kicked at one of the puddles, just to watch the water splatter the tails of Miz's expensive coat, just to see if he noticed.

Nothing.

Miz was on a mission. Punk had placed to be. But this was far more interesting. He had to find out what Miz was up to, his curiosity demanded it. The night was still young – it never ended. He had hours left to locate the one written on his hand. For now, Miz would be his mission. He stalked him for what seemed like miles. Every hundred paces or so, he'd look over his shoulder, but Punk was too fast to be caught. He'd melt into shadow, hide in a dumpster, pretend to smoke – smoke, he'd never even touched a cigarette – save for the ones that had scarred his arm in one long line, the closest to a kiss he ever got with his first girlfriend, it seemed her old man wasn't keen on his precious princess rolling with a guy like him. He remembered the pain – thirteen years old and from that day forward, he didn't go near the smokes. It wasn't a phobia. Not really. More a matter of complete and utter disgust.

Miz went from the open streets of Ventura, headed to the South Side, to the dark and twisting corridors of the once powerful Heenan – the industrial sector of Kennedy. Punk found himself becoming more and more weary. Heenan was a sick place. Most of the screams that echoed through the city came from the old factories. It was where gangs lurked with strict codes, where strangers weren't welcome. He'd never gone too near, savored his skin attached to muscle and bone, rather than dried and hung out a warning. He'd seen it before. Even the Shield seemed reluctant to tread where he did now...what business could the Miz have in a place like this?

He rolled back the sleeve of his coat from where he hid, looked down to his wrist, the strange gauntlet clamped into place around it. Numbers reflected back at him. He had time.

Storage units were lined up in their thousands – stood like a wall of cards, and behind, the titan of them all, and the only one of the behemoths still active – the Kennedy Power Plant. No one knew who kept it running. The Authority seemed to have control over what power actually came from it, but who hid behind those doors? A mystery to everyone...none dared tried to enter, the stories which circulated were enough to disturb even the most perverted of minds. Miz didn't seem to want to head toward it, instead, his attention was caught by the units. He fumbled in his pocket, possibly for a key, for something as Punk followed. He kept to the edges, eyes always on Miz. He wouldn't lose him for a second.

Eventually, Miz came to a shaky halt. The number 108 was painted above the old yellow door, barely legible, even with the dull light that came on with Miz's movement. Punk edged closer, closer.

Miz turned, gun in hand, directed straight at Punk. He shook – how he fucking shook. Had never held a gun in his life – he'd forgotten to take the safety off for starters.

' **Stay back! I don't know who you are, or what you want, but just stay away from me!** '

Punk didn't answer, kept his head a little tilted, just so his eyes could see, but couldn't be seen. Slowly, he raised his hands, palms closed.

' **Why were you following me?** '

Clever than Punk thought – that or he was getting rusty. Maybe he'd actually felt the drops from that kicked up puddle. Maybe he'd have to give the Miz a prize if he got out of this. Maybe a nice shiner to go under those ridiculous sunglasses, then he'd have reason for wearing them.

' **Answer me!** '

Safety off.

Well now he'd just have to intervene, before Miz did something they'd both regret. Punk jerked forward, caught Miz's wrist and twisted just as he fired. The shot blasted past, but the sound deafened his ear. His equilibrium was thrown but he slammed a shoulder into the other man, wrenched the weapon from him, and quickly disarmed it. He threw it aside to skid along the black. He didn't like guns. Ear ringing, Punk twitched his head. Miz was on the floor, and tried to shuffle back on his hands and feet as Punk closed in on him. He reached down and grabbed the terrified man by his front, brought him close enough to lick. But Miz didn't see who he was. The hood strayed too low, the shadow cast down his face from that little light above the unit door.

' **Open it.** '

Miz froze in horror.

' **OPEN IT.** ' Punk slammed him against the door. The echo smashed off everything, too loud, too everything. If the gun shot hadn't been enough to alert the rest of Heenan something was going down, they would have heard that. Any time he'd had spare had been significantly shortened. Miz didn't seem to be getting the message, Punk's fingers curled in his short hair. ' **I don't think you heard me.** ' He wrenched his head back and it collided once more with the door. That seemed to do the trick. Miz's stuttering hand came to the combination padlock. Punk could hear him whimper and genuinely wondered how the Authority put up with him. A quick glance around, they were still alone. For now.

The lock gave. Punk shoved Miz forward.

' **The door.** ' All of this, just to sever his curiosity. Another quick glance down to the hidden gauntlet. He still had time.

Miz was reluctant, but the threat of Punk's boot up his ass made him move. His fingers caught the handle of the door, and he heaved it upward. The dull light above it did little laminate what hid inside. The thought that this could have been some strange sex dungeon flashed through his mind. But then, Miz was probably not that imaginative. The first drops of a new storm started to fall, like a thousand beads hitting the road. He looked up at that hellish sky and then to the darkness within the unit. But he could hear something. Something moving, something muffled.

' **Light it up.** '

Miz's hesitation earned a sharp elbow to the nose. Was it bad that Punk enjoyed the sound? Tears spilled from the corners of those glasses, blood started to run and Miz clutched his face. He moved with wild abandon, swearing. He fell to his knees and curled up in a ball. ' **Ladies and gentlemen, the Authority's finest...** ' Punk muttered to himself. You just couldn't get the help these days. He stepped over the fallen man and felt along the edge of the door track for a switch, a cord, anything. After a moment, his fingertips chanced something smooth and plastic, rectangular. He flicked it. At first the lights which flickered into being were too bright; he had to shield his eyes. But then, as they adapted, he began to see.

There –

An old dust sheet hung over something which moved – something, or _someone_.

Unsure, really, of whether or not he'd taken his own curiosity too far, Punk edged into the unit, a close eye on Miz, and reached out toward the dust sheet. His fingers grasped it and pulled -


	3. Fixin' To Die

**((Sorry about the delay in throwing up this next chapter everyone! I hope that you like it!))**

 **OCTOBER** 3 **|| HEENAN: KENNEDY** Central Capitol

He couldn't quite hide his surprise.

' **Bryan.** ' He said with a curt nod.

It seemed he wasn't the only man who was supposed to be dead. It wasn't yet Halloween and it appeared that they were all starting to crawl out of the woodwork. Daniel Bryan – the rebel that fought for the freedom of the people, the man with a broken neck, dumped in the wet soil on the outskirts of the city. Like the death of the Undertaker, he'd witnessed the burial of the rebellion. He curled his head to the side – there was no mistaking who he was. The hair had grown and the beard had tangled but there could be no doubt. _The American Dragon_ lived – who'd have thought it? How he'd ended up in the storage unit was a story he wanted to hear – especially in the hands of someone like the Miz.

' **How you doin' Bryan?** ' he asked. He raised his head, just enough for the other man to see who it was.

It seemed the shock was mutual. Just outside the unit, where the drizzle fell, he could still hear the Miz cursing his luck. They were safe, for now. Somewhere, beneath the smell which rolled off of the other man like the hills beyond the city, he could see how thin Bryan had become. He'd never been a big man. That had been why the Game, the so called _King of Kings_ had hated him. The very idea that someone smaller – a common man would try and raise the people against him. He'd stunted the growth by stunting the idea. He'd had his dogs feast and leave the remains for the world to find – but no one had. Word alone had spread that _the Dragon_ was dead. He'd been married – had himself a pretty bride out of Buchanan.

Behind him, he heard movement. Punk shifted his weight, leaned himself back to peer out into the darkness. Miz had sat himself up against the wall, holding his broken nose and whimpering. He was too much of a coward to be trouble – for now. People who were scared were dangerous people indeed. Punk, rarely let himself fear too much – it seemed a waste of energy.

Bryan looked weak. Even now the heavy dust cover was off, he didn't seem to have the strength to speak, let alone stand. He wasn't supposed to be rescuing revolutionaries. He had other things to do and other people to find. But this discovery was too useful, too interesting. He bent his knees and brought himself down to the same level as Bryan, he held out his hands to slip them beneath the other man's arms and then, with a grunt of effort, he brought him up. Almost as soon as he was on his feet, his legs buckled, but Punk kept a firm grip. Bryan's hands were caught up behind him, no doubt cuffed to stop him getting too far. He could figure that out later. For now, he needed to find somewhere safe to store him.

Punk half walked, half dragged Bryan with him out of the unit. As soon as they broke the light, they were noticed by the Miz. He sniffed and swore and scrambled to his feet, back, away from them. His eyes flicked around the darkness of the ground, tried to seek out the gun, but Punk had thrown it far – it wouldn't be found quickly.

' **I'd love to know how this happened, Miz. But you're going to walk away now.** '

Miz, didn't seem too keen on the idea. He flinched, one hand to his face, the other clenched in a tight fist. Fight or flee? It was a flip of a coin – would he be brave? Oh Punk hoped he would.

Unfortunately he was left disappointed.

With a snarl of frustration, Miz started to step backward, all the while his eyes on the two of them. But then, something in his demeanour changed. Those stupid sunglasses hit the floor with a clatter. His eyes widened; panicked instead of fearful. He turned on his heel and dashed off through the wet. Punk felt the chill of the air. The cold echo of Miz's steps set him on edge. He could feel it, he knew; they were being watched.

' **You picked one hell of a place to come back to life Bryan,** ' he muttered. He dreaded to think just what the numbers on that gauntlet were doing – ticking away what time he had. He'd been careless. But he couldn't leave Bryan behind. If only for his own sake – the other man had far too much worth. Punk peered around him. Sounds, little movements all around them. He tried to keep himself up on his toes, but his arms were completely caught up by Bryan. The other man was held against him, face to face. If there was any strength in the frail body, now was the time for it to come out. Punk moved to the left. They had to leave.

The rain fell like needles in the light. Punk edged as fast as he could; all the while he kept his eyes about them. His ears heard hands, feet, dozens of them. They were outnumbered by shadows. With a hiss, he ducked his body down, hefted Bryan up onto his shoulder and held him in place with an arm. He may have lost a radical amount of weight – but it seemed the rebellion was everyone's stone to bear. He tried to keep his steps quiet, tried to move out of the light. ' **Shit.** '

They haunted the fringes of his vision. They were the demons who poured from the mouths of the warehouses, who threatened the feared. Through the haze, he could make out the outlines of the bent over bodies as the water bounced off of them. He could hear them breathe; he heard the rhythm they hit out as they smacked hands and weapons against the corrugated roofs. It was the devil's pulse. He turned on the spot, tried to see them all but he could feel them crowding in. They were surrounded.

The moment he ran, the hunt would begin.

The rooftop drum grew louder and louder, its echo seemed to call more bodies from the thin alleys and from round the dark corners. The gangs of Heenan were awake.

Fuck his curiosity in the ass. How did he let these things happen?

Punk ran.

Almost instantly he felt the beat of others after him, unloaded. They would catch him and he knew what would happen – they were better off dead men. With gritted teeth he pushed himself on, back the way he came. Through the wide expense of the storage lot and down through the twisting corridors of the sector. Kennedy was a living city – her roads and paths were just a network of veins – as above, so below. Down in the dark of the earth, under her buildings and throughout Capitol were the catacombs. Deep in its centre lay her beating heart – he felt the throb beneath his feet, heard her shrieking breath as they gained on him. He was strong, he was fit, but this was a journey not expected. The weight of another body dragged his stamina into the dirt. Each breath was a load. His eyes tried to focus through the rain. He could feel his heartbeat in every limb.

He skidded to a stop, droplets kicked up by his boots. Which way had he come from? The way branched off in three directions and he couldn't think, every second wasted was another second closer to a second death. Bryan's hair irritated him. He had to chose, and shot off east. Almost as soon as he'd done it, he realized he'd picked wrong.

The buildings towered either side of him, the path snaked too thin and he pushed himself on, knowing that they stalked from the rooftops as well as the ground.

The first caught up, fingers grabbed for his coat but Punk pushed on, just avoided the grip. If they got a hold of Bryan, then he'd leave him – wasn't a part of his night's plan anyway. Besides, he looked good as dead. Should have left him in the storage unit; shouldn't have played the hero. It had never done him any good before. Ahead was a fence, a padlocked gate. A dead end. Through the metal spikes he could see the freedom of the Ventura streets.

' **Can't fly, can you Dragon?** ' Punk asked. They'd reached the end of the line. He turned to face what was coming. His back, and Bryan's head, hit against the iron. The other man groaned. ' **I guess not...** '

That _pulse_ – they drummed it against the walls, the roofs and the ground – anything they could touch. It shook his bones. It knocked his teeth and his grip on the other man slackened, ready to drop and run. He could scale the gate if he was fast enough – he could be home free. But he could feel the bones through Bryan's skin and knew that if he left him in that corridor, then he'd die. It wasn't a matter of if, he would, and whilst Punk wasn't in the business of saving lives (especially for free) he knew that he couldn't just leave him. ' **You owe me for this Bryan.** '

Shadows crawled closer until they peeled away in the faint light of nearby Ventura. He could see arms and partial faces, he could see tattoos and he could see boots and weapons. Dozens of bodies crowded. He lifted his face a little to see others leering down at him. The rain dampened everything. He could see something moving though the group in front of him, two men coming forward. Maybe he could somehow throw Bryan over the top of the gate? At least then he'd be out of Punk's way and he'd be out of the gang territory. A quick turn back of the head gave him his answer – he'd need a fucking catapult to get him over that.

' **What do we have here?** '

' **Looks like someone fixin' to die.** '

Punk kept his head down. He knew those voices and he knew that if they realized who he was, neither of them were getting out of this in one piece, let alone alive. The New Age Outlaws didn't forgive and they didn't forget – he'd crossed them years before and it hadn't been friendly. Headed by the two men who now faced him, the Outlaws had been behind some of Kennedy's most notorious crimes...and enjoyed a special relationship with the Game. Punk gritted his teeth as the crooked jaws of Jesse James cracked a grin.

' **Seems like he's found our little friend...what do you say to that Billy?** '

Billy Gunn – former male prostitute. Asshole. Thankfully silent – he just nodded. _Not much of an answer there Billy_ , Punk thought bitterly. Maybe he'd not heard the question, or maybe James already knew what the answer was to be. But that was interesting – the Outlaws knew about Bryan – chances were they were the ones who'd been holding him – so what did the Miz have to do with it? But what did that mean of Hunter? The king on the top of the mountain with his sledgehammer of glory – if he'd have known Bryan was alive, he'd have made sure he wasn't – buried alive in concrete or hit into the bottom of the sea. There was a lot to find out. But not right then.

' **I think you should give our toy back.** ' Gunn had a toothpick sticking out. It made Punk resent his own. ' **If you do, we might let you go**.'

Might – there was no might about it.

The two leaders stepped forward, and their whole gang with them, but as they did, and as Punk contemplated throwing Bryan's carcass at them to make his own escape, there was a resounding howl. It echoed through the entirety of the lot, it travelled through the alleyways and the corridors, shrill and sharp, it cut through every nerve. Punk's blood, already cold from the rain, froze in place. Each and every head turned to the noise. The unholy rhythm that had smacked against every surface came to a hallowing halt. Murmurs, whispers spread through the ranks. James and Gunn looked to each other, something close to panic in their faces.

' **Here?** '

Another howl – it felt closer, seemed louder, brought from the lips of something almost human. There was no storm – but one was coming. He knew that the hounds were out on the hunt...and it seemed they had found their prey. But in Heenan? The dogs were either mad or suicidal – if any heads were wanted on pikes or plates it was those of the Shield. If he was caught between the factions then playing hero for Bryan would have made a ghost out of him. He couldn't stay to see the fight break or even to see if the hounds arrived. He turned in place to look – the gate was open. He didn't know how, he didn't know who'd done it but he didn't hang around. Without a second glance, he shot through and slammed it shut behind him. The noise attracted the attention of the gang and James slammed against it, but Punk threw his own weight back to keep it shut. He felt as more bodies pushed and his feet started to slide –

Another howl and he heard shouts. Bryan slipped from his grasp and onto the floor as he turned his body and pushed everything he had against that gate. Punk felt pain in his shoulders, his knees, every part of him. The flickering lights of the Ventura streets called to him and he could see safety ahead but he couldn't release and he couldn't let up, or they'd both be dragged back and devoured. His eyes closed, his teeth crunched and his bones ached from the effort. But through the cold came something new. His ears heard and his heart quickened.

Whistling – someone was whistling. He knew the tune, knew the song – _and I think to myself, what a wonderful world_ – his brain sang it but different lips carried it. He knew who it was. The Shield were here, and there was one man who'd walk into battle with that as his war cry.

Something scraped along brick and metal, sharpened studs on leather gloves.

' **Could use some help here** ,' he growled. Bryan from his position on the floor was curled up, foetal and fucking useless. Shouldn't have gotten himself involved, should have stayed away from the Miz, should have just done his job and none of this shit would have happened. ' **Bryan, I'll fucking kill you myself if you don't help me -,** '

As soon as the words were out, Bryan was on his disorientated feet. He stumbled forward, his extra weight against the gate. If they could get it just a little more closed – the lock which had kept it shut could be closed again – the padlock hung loose in place. James and Gunn were gone – had moved to the back of the crowd. Punk looked through the gaps in the metal and there, up in the low light of the storage lot, he saw three bodies stand. ' **Shit. Shit...** '

' **Shit?** ' Bryan added. Figured his first word would be something like that.

With a last grunt of effort, Punk threw his weight. The gate snapped into place. His hands clicked the padlock shut. He'd trapped the outlaws in their own territory, locked in their homemade cage with a trio of rabid dogs. Good luck to them, good luck and good fucking riddance. His breathing staggered as he saw outlaw arms claw through the gate stepped smartly back and when he did, Bryan stumbled straight into him. But he caught, his body maintained and he looked at Bryan's raggedy face and shook his head.

' **What the fuck happened to you Bryan?** '

They left as the first screams began. Punk had a place – he'd take Bryan there. He'd leave him there to rest because the night wasn't over. He looked down at the gauntlet on his arm. Only a few hours left to find a man in a city of sinners. He had a job to do. He carried the rebellion leader through the dark of Kennedy, unable to forget how close it had been...unable to ignore the death and pain which echoed from Heenan through every street and alley, through every open window and under every door.


	4. Out Of Sight

**((Hello there! I'm sorry that I've been such a bad human and haven't updated this at all in forever. But I'm trying to be good and get things done, and Punk's story will continue! Thank you for your incredible patience everyone, and I hope that you enjoy it! Please, as always, let me know what you think in the comments!))**

 **OCTOBER** 3 **|| THE EDGE: KENNEDY:** Central Capitol

It had boarded up since they'd left, windows smashed in from where the junkies used it as a den, graffiti walls and shit in the corners. A long time ago, he'd come to the rundown building hoping to escape the hell that had been a broken home, but all he'd found when he arrived was a thousand fragments of glass. Every room had been shown the same disrespect. Kennedy's homeless were targets like the gang of Heenan. The hounds cared not who they tore to pieces, it was all in the name of their warped sense of justice...and they were too fucking stupid to see that there was nothing just about the murders they committed, the lives they destroyed. Lives...lives like Daniel Bryan's, like that young bride of his, somewhere in the city, thinking her husband was a dead man in a shallow grave.

He kicked irritably at a stray crow that had decided the busted apartment was its nest. When it had first arrived, he'd named it Lita, had enjoyed its company for a while and the rest wanted it to fuck off, but as soon as it was gone, he'd miss it again. Bryan was barely conscious, a near dead weight to drag through the rooms, each more squalid than the last. In the smallest, an old, mouse chewed mattress sat snug in the corner with the least dry rot. When he'd found it in that dumpster all those years ago it had once been blue and white stripes but now, like everything else, it was a filthy grey. The crow squawked at him and ruffled her feathers as he lay Bryan down onto that mattress. His hands now free, he searched endless pockets until he pulled free a metal lock pick, crudely made by his own hands, no mean feat for a man missing three fingers. He made short work of the cuffs that had bound the other man and looked down at him with a cocked head. He could sleep it off among the dust and the mites and the bird shit on the floor. Punk had places to be. He'd gone too far out of his way, wasted too much time over this, should have ignored that waste of air the Miz and carried on with his mission. Another glance at the gauntlet, time was rapidly running out. He had no food or water to offer the dragon on his mattress.

' **Keep an eye on him,'** he muttered to the crow. He drew close to the jagged gap where the window had once been, and hitched himself through, feet onto the wrought iron of the fire escape. That moon had passed now, invisible beyond those storm clouds. The rains kissed his skin, ran across his face and through his hair. Even the strongest of storms would never be enough to cleanse his soul of the acts he'd committed. The night was endless in Kennedy, but time still moved. He ran his hands through his hair, took in that noxious rain, one of the few pleasures he had. It was a death of a thousand cuts, refreshing and agony all at once. Some thought acid fell from that sky. Eyes scanned over the ground below. Few would be out now in this weather; most were wise enough to take what shelter could be found. The vagrants in the alley would not be so lucky. The heavy gloom that covered Kennedy hid many secrets. Another glance to the gauntlet and Punk descended to the streets below. Hollow lamplight flickered. The building stood on the fringe of the Edge, next to that hulking wall. None desired to live in Christian Towers, most who did, like him, had no choice. On the streets, when the night was its darkest, when the rains fell thick...some whispered stories of the girl with the cold voice. She would sing through the echoes and the alleys and all who heard her song soon found themselves added to the piles of corpses stacked high and out of sight. He'd never seen her, could not confirm whether the stories were true. But even so, hood drawn up and head down, he kept his pace brisk. He did not believe in fairytales, but he believed in monsters. He'd known too many not to.

A lead he'd garnered before he'd spied the Miz would be his best opportunity. The courts of the King were corrupt as the man himself, judges and lawyers were snivelling excuses for humans and would spill any secret in exchange for coin or to be left in one piece. Lawler had been an easy target, a worse coward than the Miz. He presumed all should kiss the ground he worked from high on his pedestal with gavel in hand. The law was crooked, so it only stood to reason its judge was too. He'd found the man, strapped to a bed on the receiving end of one of Mullah's girls. It had been easy enough to get the information he needed once he threatened several parts of the man's anatomy with vivid description and articulate manner.

And now, he walked with purpose toward the subway entrance, with its dented, rusted sign, with its stairs swamped and wet. They often flooded when they rain fell heavy. The sky showed cruel promise. He would have to be quick. The old rail carts which ran were infrequent, used mostly by local gangs, dealers and gun runners. The weapons trade was alive, well, competitive and expensive. Only the elite of the scum could handle or receive such goods, rumour dictated that they were supplied by a man by the name of Graves, but like the girl with the cold voice...none had ever seen him. Punk liked to think of himself above such impersonal killing methods. If he had to take a life, it had to be worth it, worth his sweat and the effort it took to drain away blood into a gutter. He could hear the rain water running down the stone walls, could see it pool at the bottom of the steps. The subways could lead to deeper, darker places, halls that twisted below the surface, frequented by apex predators. Like the surface, electric lights jutted from the ceiling, most broken fluorescent tubes on the stone floor. Here and there were flashes. But like Heenan, he had to be careful, there were eyes everywhere; especially in the dark.

The tracks were treacherous, a spark spitting accident waiting to claim lives as soon as the water levels rose. Punk lowered himself down from the platform, feet hit loose stone and he peered up, peered down. No carts in sight for now, should one approach with hostile inhabitants he would have a fight he didn't need. He'd avoided immediate crucifixion at the hands of the James Gang...he must have had someone roll some kind of luck for him. But ever the cynic, he doubted that it would last. He trekked for what felt like an eternity, close to the wall, just in case. The air was dank, moist with the storm from above. All manner of unpleasant things grew from cracks and pitched past his boots. A noise – up ahead, he was getting close. Nerves were not clever in the underground of Kennedy. You had to swing balls of steel and fists to match to stay alive, or in his case, to remain dead. He had no intention of revealing his survival to the world. Death suited him fine. The circles he moved in knew him only as the Hooded Man. And that was all they needed to know. But Bryan...well that was an exception.

He squinted ahead – faint light, the sounds growing louder, louder. There were beasts hidden down here. He could make out shapes, blurred shadows against the soft glow of lanterns. Who knew how many of them there were...that would be problematic. He edged along the wall, and froze at the sudden roar of a crowd. Many corridors and paths ran alongside these tracks. The sound reverberated around him, made him feel surrounded on all sides. Slowly, quiet as he could, he moved along the bricks to where they turned off, and trying to stay hidden, he peered around the corner.

A chaotic circle surrounded two humans, one huge, the other small, but fast. He recognized the larger: three hundred pounds of Bulgarian beef and bad attitude. The man was known as Rusev, an immigrant whose only asylum in the city could be found in the fighting pits, underground. As soon as he'd stepped foot in Kennedy, questions had been asked, eyebrows raised and hammers thrown. The man had attempted to defend a young woman from being harassed in the streets, but found himself arrested for his brutality. Lawler had sent him down, but with the woman, another foreigner, he escaped down to the tracks and the halls. None dared follow nor bothered. There was no need, he couldn't be a revolutionary in the sewers. But the smaller? Punk wasn't close enough to see what they looked like, but flinched as the figure crumpled from a bone crunching blow. This was a crude arrangement; the fights had been going for years, never with a permanent home. But one man ran the whole operation, and that was who he'd been sent to find.

Punk moved from his hiding spot, tried to blend himself into the crowd. The punters shouted bets and demanded blood. He could see a tall creature behind a table, at the head of it all, money and weapons and jewellery piled in front of him. He thumbed his way though notes and wrote in the book next to it all, cataloguing. Punk looked down at his hand, shrugged, and pushed his way through the distracted men and women toward the man. As he approached, his presence was sensed, and the table's occupier looked up at him.

 **'Here to place a bet, friend?'** he asked, a European lilt to his voice.

Punk had barely enough money to feed himself, let alone take a chance on a blood sport. He pushed a hand into his pocket and pulled free a scavenged watch, still working by some miracle and dropped it onto the pile of bet goods. **'Who's playin'?'**

 **'You have the brute Rusev,'** the bookie nodded his approval at another blow landed by the Bulgarian, the one he was fighting was on the floor, kicks crushing his ribs, **'and Kingston.'**

Punk glanced back over his shoulder. The crowd had parted a little to allow Rusev more room to pummel his opponent. Kingston looked to be around Punk's age, skin dark, hair wild and body covered in bruising from the blows. But, as he cocked his head to the side, observing, the lithe fighter in his quivering foetal position on the sharp ground, glanced up, and saw him. He couldn't have seen him clearly, but there was fire in his black eyes.

 **'Kingston,'**

 **'Be a wasted bet,'** the bookie mused but wrote it down into the accountancy book. **'What name?'**

Punk didn't answer, curious now about this Kingston. The interest was unfounded, irrelevant, but the fighter didn't seem to think so. Maybe he'd heard that Punk had put down a bet on him, maybe it renewed his will or gave him some new kind of vigour, but Kingston avoided the next heavy blow from the Bulgarian and rolled onto his feet, crouched, legs ready to spring. His arms out in front, bent, ready to try and block incoming punches. Rusev clearly didn't like this, and rained down with a barrage of kicks and hooks, but Kingston...somehow, he avoided them all. He moved like lightning, and it amazed Punk that he'd been knocked down at all.

 **'I need a name,'**

 **'Put it in his,'**

The bookie stared at him, but then, with a resigned shrug, he jotted the bet down. Punk leaned over to see as he wrote: _Kofi Kingston_. What a name. A shocked gasp from the spectators turned his attention back to the fight. Kingston stood tall, breathing heavy, sweat covered, but at his feet was Rusev. The Bulgarian seemed out cold. The punters didn't know what to say, what to do. The bookie's mouth was open in surprise, before he turned his eyes up to where Punk's hid below the rim of his hood.

 **'You must be some kind of good luck charm,'** but he chuckled to himself more than to Punk.

 **'Luck is for losers,'**

 **'That maybe so, though somehow I have the feeling that you didn't come here to place a rogue bet on an underdog,'** he ran a hand over his bald head, before he intertwined his fingers and balanced his stubbly chin on top. **'What can I do for you?'**

 **'Cesaro I presume,'**

The bookie nodded, arms spread wide, **'And this is my KOW circle. The more money that comes in, the more I'll expand. Within the year I'll have an _arena_ beneath this ragged city.'**

Punk nodded, **'Then you're the man I'm looking for. I've been requested to find you for an interested party.'**

 **'And what kind of interest is that?'**

 **'He wants to talk hair loss? I don't give a shit. I'm just a messenger.'** Punk glanced down at the gauntlet in irritation. He didn't have long left...less than an hour. **'I've been told to deliver you to him willing or unwilling.'**

Cesaro raised his eyebrows in amusement, before he stood up from behind the table, he was several inches taller than Punk, and straightened his shirt and tie. **'There's no need to resort to force.'**

Well that was less fun. Less bother, but less fun.

 **'Allow me to talk to my associate,'** he nodded to where a massive man stood, shaggy blond hair on his head and vacancy in his eyes, **'so that he might give Kingston his winnings and sort out our share of the profit, then I shall be all yours.'**

He was being far too polite, far too happy to play along and Punk's suspicions were aroused. But he didn't have time to waste, the minutes were ticking away and he knew what would happen if he didn't deliver Cesaro in time...so he nodded. If this could go smoothly then all the better for him and his increasingly tight schedule. Cesaro moved out from behind the make shift desk, and over to the blond with the overbite. Punk didn't hear what was being said, but he tensed, expecting trouble when the two men looked over at him. Cesaro was clearly the more sophisticated out of the two considering the dumb expression on the other's face. But his worries seemed unfounded, and Cesaro returned to him with a dignified nod.

 **'Very well, let us depart, but just one thing first,'**

The punters had started to clear, and out of the corner of his eye, Punk could see Cesaro's partner approach Kingston, exhausted after the fight. Then, as he led him to the table to collect his winnings, the man grabbed Kingston from behind, an arm around his throat, the other gripped his head, cutting off oxygen.

Punk flinched but didn't move, **'What's this Cesaro?'** he asked coolly.

 **'Insurance, an incentive, if you will, to make sure that I remain safe during this transaction,'**

 **'And what makes you think I give a damn what happens to him?'**

Cesaro smiled, charming, with too white teeth, **'Only a man with vested interest would bet on behalf of a fighter.'**

So a random act had placed the fighter in peril. Punk didn't need this shit. He didn't care, just wanted this job over and done with. He already had one helpless lump of a human curled up on his floor; he didn't need any more unwelcome additions to his life. He watched as Kingston struggled against the ever tightening grip. **'Your friend needs to work on his chokehold,'**

He seemed to like that. Cesaro began to button up the jacket that he wore. **'Your bravado is admirable, but the fact remains. Act violently toward me, and an innocent man shall suffer for it. Do you want that on your conscience?'**

Irritated, Punk gritted his teeth. Another look at Kingston saw the fighter had passed out, his feet off the floor. He was a man who lived a life of solitude, rejected others because having people around only meant more danger, more problems. He'd acted against his own code retrieving Daniel Bryan from the lock up, but now this? He shouldn't have interfered, should have just done his job. Punk didn't need to look at that gauntlet now, he knew that his time was running out.

 **'And when this matter is done, you let him go.'**

 **'Of course, without a scratch. That is, unless he attempts escape, or anything that might force Mr Swagger's hand.'**

Punk glared from under that hood, but slowly, forced himself to nod. **'Then let's go.'**


	5. As You Asked

**((It's been a bit of a wait, sorry about that everyone. I'm definitely getting back into these stories now. Hopefully I won't be away for as long as I have been! I hope that you enjoy this new chapter into Punk's story, please let me know your thoughts and thank you for your patience!))**

 **OCTOBER** 3 | **DELPHI: KENNEDY** Central Capitol

The man Punk worked for – or associated himself with, was a fat man in a fat suit, bought off the pain of others. But he had been the one to drag the broken, dead man from the rubble of that wall and so in those greedy eyes, Punk owed him. In the opinion of the Hooded Man himself, he'd paid back his debt a hundred times over, doing just as he was asked. When he didn't do the bidding, he found himself faced with a Beast even he couldn't conquer.

He may have defeated death once, but that was only with the helping hands and teasing fingers of the girls from Mullah – commissioned by the Walrus himself, the man who controlled him now. Now, as he traced his way slowly back from the underground, he was followed. Enticing Cesaro had not been difficult it seemed. But now he had stragglers, people he didn't need or want. He knew what would happen if he returned to Heyman with unexpected guests. He'd pay for it and Cesaro's company would be quickly disposed off if Heyman saw fit. As far the kid...Kingston was slung over Swagger's shoulder with disregard. Still out cold from the crude choke hold he'd been snapped into. The other men were far more cautious than Punk had been when it came to the narrow path, avoiding the waters and spitting sparks of the tracks.

At their very end, at the edge of the steps leading out of the underground, Punk stood, irritated, watching as they side stepped along. He didn't know what Heyman wanted with the European, but the bookie was wasting his time. He had precious minutes, precious seconds and fucking hated waiting. Especially for people he didn't want to be near to begin with. Underneath the protection of his hood, Punk snorted as Cesaro nearly slipped on the slick ledge.

Eventually though, the bookie and his large assistant were secure on the steps. The European readjusted his tie and swept a hand across his bald head once again, clearly a little thrown but nevertheless determined to stay in control.

'Don't worry, your hair looks fine,' Punk muttered.

He received a thousand volt glare for that one but he didn't give a shit.

'So who is it I am to be meeting?' Cesaro asked as they ascended the stairs. Punk ensured that he was half facing the two men at all times. He didn't fancy being attacked from behind. Perhaps he was a little more on edge than usual after what had happened already that night. For a split second, his thoughts flitted to where Bryan lay curled up on that mattress, but quickly he returned to his present moment. He couldn't afford to be distracted. He didn't have time. There was never any time on these assignments.

'I told you,'

'An interested party is an intriguing premise, but I'd rather like to know who has requested the pleasure of my company,' he was remarkably well spoken and that just served to annoy Punk further. The ones who talked pretty in this city were the ones who thought a lot of themselves, thought themselves important. Their ignorance was often as dangerous as they were and judging by the frame of the man, Cesaro had Swagger for back up, not protection. 'In this city, it isn't wise to meet with anonymous men.'

'Yet you're following one,' Punk's back teeth ground as they emerged onto the streets.

'Call it curiosity,'

There was a low groan from the unconscious body of Kingston. The fighter had had a rough night. Whilst Cesaro had promised the kid's freedom after all of this was over, Punk wasn't holding his breath. Men like the bookie rarely kept their word – it was what kept them successful, it was what made them dangerous and for Punk, it often made him very nearly late. That was something he couldn't afford.

He drew back his sleeve and looked down to the gauntlet around his arm. The numbers continued to count down. His eyes narrowed. He had less than half an hour to get these three men back across town to where Heyman waited, no doubt sipping an expensive cocktail. Heyman was a man who grew fat on the misery of others. Punk knew the man considered him a favourite pet, and when he allowed Lesnar, the Beast loose to beat him to shit, it was his idea of tough love.

'He's a smart guy. One who knows an opportunity when he sees it.' Punk muttered, hopeful that he wouldn't be asked anymore questions. He didn't want to give any answers. He didn't want to be there. He had more important things to do, like a wounded dragon on his mattress. There were two sides to every part of Kennedy. He knew that. There's was a world seemingly disturbed only by the evils of man. But there was something else. If dead men like he could be brought back to life by a kiss, rebuilt using pieces of other corpses then there could very well be a very real problem in his living quarters.

Cesaro raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. 'Well then, I should hope he will be willing to invest in my enterprise.'

Punk didn't quite nod, but turned his head a little more to glance over at the kid slung over Swagger's shoulder. Kofi Kingston was beginning to stir. He hoped for the fighter's sake he knew how to fake it until he had a real chancing of getting the fuck out of dodge. When all this was done and Cesaro had been delivered to Heyman – what then of Kingston? The Walrus wouldn't just let the kid go free – not if he'd been to his hidden quarters, not if he knew the way. Punk didn't want hassle, but he certainly didn't want innocent blood on his hands. Not again.

Wordlessly, he led the way through backstreets and alleyways until he drew up beside a small building, ramshackle on the outside, but appearances could be deceptive. He knew that better than anyone.

'This...is where your acquaintance resides?' Cesaro couldn't quite hide the disgust from his tone. That was fine, if he had issue or even mentioned the appearance of this place to Heyman it wouldn't end well for him. Paul Heyman was a man who thrived on the destruction of beautiful things and found marvel in the dirt and filthy creations of the world. Perhaps that was why he favoured Punk so. This hovel was his pride and joy.

A chill rolled by them and Punk, out of habit twitched his hood down another inch. His anonymity was as precious as his time. Slowly, he drew up a fist and pounded it against the barely standing door. Once, twice, three-four, five, six-seven. The sequence would let the Beast on the other side know just who was standing out in the cold and the slowly dwindling rain. Damp, wet through and irritated, Punk waited. It took far too long for his liking for that door to unlock and open. Lesnar had it in for him, ever since he'd arrived and Heyman had weighed some of his misplaced affection on the dead bomber. He'd be more than happy to let Punk stand outside in the rain as those precious minutes ticked by. Only five left now.

'Open the fucking door!' Punk growled and kicked it as hard as he could.

Almost instantly, the lock sprang open and there he stood. Brock Lesnar, the Beast. He was...a brutally magnificent sight to behold. All machine, all monster. He had more muscle in his biceps than most men had in their entire bodies. He was thick skulled, built for impact and pounding the shit out of lesser creatures. He took delight in the pain and misery of others, just as Heyman did. And he fucking hated Punk. Almost as soon as those beetle like eyes fell on the Hooded Man and his companions, he grunted, blocked the way through so that those seconds fell away.

'Lesnar I swear if you don't fuckin' move I'll -,'

'You'll do nothing,' the wheezy, squawk of Heyman came from behind the mass of brutality. 'Come inside. You're letting the warmth out.'

Punk snorted. There was no warmth in that building, not from anything living anyway. Both Heyman and his attack dog were cold blooded as they came. Lesnar seemed resistant for just a second, but then relented and allowed the small group of men through the door. Punk didn't waste any time. He approached the chair in the corner of the room, the one facing the fire and held out his arm, the sleeve pulled back.

'Deactivate it. I did as you asked.'

Heyman looked up at him over his glasses. 'Did you? Well why don't you introduce me.'

'He's here Heyman, I brought him.' Punk growled. Less than a minute now, 'Heyman -,'

The Walrus glanced over the side of his chair and saw Cesaro standing there. 'So you did. Very well.'

He reached out as slowly as possible and pressed his thumb against a small, blank, black part of that gauntlet. Nothing happened but then, a tiny beep. The numbers stopped. Punk let out a shallow breath.

'You took too long today. Next time it might kill you.'

'I'll keep that in mind.' Punk took in a deep breath and turned to face Cesaro and Swagger. 'You're here, without funny business. Let the kid go.'


End file.
